101 Ways to Drown
by frontyardgnome
Summary: AKA How H.M. Murdock Learned to Swim: Murdock became a pilot for one good reason - he hates water! Naturally, when Hannibal finds out, he makes it his mission to teach the pilot this 'crucial skill', whether Murdock is willing or not. Slight crack ahead!


He tried every excuse in the book once the secret was out.

"The Army never required it so I figured it was optional!"

Countered easily by Hannibal. "When has the Army ever been efficient in telling us what we need to know?"

Which he had to accede to, particularly since it would have been nice to know about the oh-so-clever black hooded snipers in the opposite hotel building in Rio, the changed landing zone coordinates that were now a half click away by camel in Kosovo, and the fact that, oh yeah, your commanding officer really isn't after the plates for the good of the country but for the good of himself.

Touché, Hannibal Smith, touché.

"I'm allergic to water."

"You were playin' with that damn duck in the sink a week ago!" said Bosco, staring at him as if he'd grown a second head. Which he hadn't. Not right then at least.

"Mr. Rubberton was not playing, Bosco, he was bathing."

"You were helpin' him."

He rolled his eyes as he loaded the pans. "I think Mr. Rubberton is quite capable of bathing himself, B.A. I was merely acting as supervising lifeguard."

To which the burly Corporal folded his arms and leaned back against the counter tops, giving him one of those incredulous looks that Murdock kept telling the man would cause his face to freeze like that if he wasn't careful. "How can you be a lifeguard if you're allergic to water, man?"

That was also an excellent point, to which he had to think for a minute before answering with a nonchalant shrug. "It's just a sink full of water, B.A. It's not like I'd actually have to swim."

Evidently the patronizing tone had been a bit too much, as the next thing he knew he was being chased around the kitchen with the sink faucet being sprayed at him and for the rest of the day he hadn't necessarily had to fake sneezing. Even though no one bought the idea that the reaction was out of allergies rather than residual water in his nasal cavity, despite the dramatic swoon onto the dining room floor.

"Everyone knows that the first people who die when the monster gets out are the lovers, swimmers, and in love swimmers, in that order."

Face just stared at him as well and he had to wonder if maybe that second head had come in after all. "So, basically, you're entire rationale for this is based on Jaws?"

Like he'd be that unprofessional in forming an opinion. "Also Rogue, Alligator, Piranha, The Anaconda, and anything from the 1930s."

"Right, so anything with one syllable."

"There's also Creature from the Black Lagoon, Deep Star Six, Deep Blue Sea-"

"All right, all right!" Face had surrendered at that, going back to his laptop and moving a finger across the keypad as if the entire conversation were something he actually understood.

He thought he had won, had even recited passages from Moby Dick to rub in the fact that there was scary shit out there. Had gone to bed feeling accomplished until the next morning when he woke up to cardboard box plastered with overnight stickers. A Faceman gift of a brand new inflatable lobster, with a note explaining that it's rather hard to be pulled to the depths when you're floating on a sturdy water floatation device.

And it went on from there.

The longer he resisted the "suggestions" that he get in the pool and learn, the more he found himself under a cruel and unusual house arrest – a claim that was met with very little sympathy from anyone but Socky, who he wasn't quite sure felt sympathy more than joy at finally having Murdock to himself. While Socky may have been excited, however, he found himself considerably less so.

Particularly when it became clear exactly what kind of game he was up against.

The television was the first causality of the Great Water War of '07.

Just walked in after an afternoon of Halo with Face to find the Xbox gone, the cords gone, and the television jack missing a plugged in television set. He could practically hear his grandfather cheering in his grave.

But catching sight of a challenging look from Face, he had puffed out his chest and sat down in the now vacant spot with a book. "Waves are just right here, man."

The computer went next, to which all the goading about Face being unable to access his e-mail deals and Hannibal's news sources proved futile. Particularly when Hannibal rustled the newspaper at breakfast and said behind a wall of black news ink, "Guess we'll have to just support the written press for awhile, Captain."

Drat.

The pots and pans followed suit – "Gettin' take out, Murdock," B.A. had gruffed with an unusually bright glint in those dark brown eyes – as did his stashes of art supplies, the keys to the van, his toys, and his socks. At each turn he was met, every tangent was cut off, every escape blocked until he found himself with nothing to keep his hands busy and no people to talk to.

Which was why he was now outside on the villa decking, swim shorts and shoes on (the latter only because they were the one article of clothing left in his room and by George he wasn't going to let them go without a fight!) and back plastered to the locked sliding glass door. All he could do was stare forward into lidded grey ones that were crinkled at the edges in a way that should have been reassuring.

"It's a great day for a swim, Captain," Hannibal even said with a sympathetic smile.

He could have died right then, however, at the fact that there was jazz in those eyes.

"I'm sure it is, Colonel. Also a great day for kazoo playing, basket weaving, a good game of Mahjong, and belly dancing, but I'm going to have to go back in for the right pants for that last one. So if you'll excuse me…"

He turned to leave in hopes that someone would take pity on the puppy dog eyes he now had on, but no such luck. B.A. ignored him from behind the newspaper, firmly planted on the wide leather couch on the edge near the front door Murdock noted. Face just gave him an eat-shit grin from the kitchen table, adding a cheeky wave before turning back to his laptop that had magically appeared from somewhere.

As soon as he had his pans back, they'd all suffer.

The splish splash of water alerted him to the fact that the Colonel was drawing closer to the edge of the pool and since no one in their right, wrong, or even partially both mind ever kept their back to Hannibal for long he turned slowly to keep an eye on the older man. Maybe he could make a run for the gate.

Hannibal merely gave him a smile, however, and folded his arms on the pool edge. "As curious as I am as to where exactly you learned that particular skill, I think you're conveniently dressed to learn another ability to add to your repertoire."

"Palm reading?" He managed an innocent look, or what he hoped was one. He suspected it looked more like a nervous Chihuahua, but at least it was points for pulling off two looks at once. "Because I've got to tell ya, I learned that one awhile ago and still have trouble with the difference between the love line and the life line."

A twitch of the Colonel's mouth told him, however, that the deflection was in vain. "I might be able to help you with that, Captain. Why don't I take a look now?"

The next sentence would be crucial, as it determined whether or not he backed himself into a corner or slipped underneath the proverbial wrestling arm. "Well, I figure they're both pretty long, so I'll just take my chances with the unknown. Besides, knowing the ending takes the fun out of things, right?"

He figured Hannibal would understand that. After all, it's not like they knew _exactly_how those plans of his would end. Just how they wanted them too, luck be a lady that night. Or at least gullible enough to pull the wool over for just a little while.

But Hannibal was Hannibal for a reason, and that mouth quirked up in a kind curve that went perfectly with the, "It's not the ending that matters but the journey towards."

Damn it. He doesn't know that one, but the way that Hannibal had that benevolent air about him indicates someone must have said it sometime somewhere which meant that he'd lost this battle. You can't compete with wise, dead guys without looking like an asshole. And you certainly can't compete with the Colonel when he has that smug look in his eyes.

So with a steeling breath he slowly unpeeled himself from the glass door and began the dance toward the pool edge. One shuffle forward, two sideways, one half step forward, another three inches to the right, arms out in case he gets a chance to either fly off with a gust of wind or make a break for the gate. It's all an intricate dance that had him imitating a crab until about three feet from the edge. Well out of Hannibal's range, out of a good portion of the splash zone, and close enough for him to squat to thrust his palm at the same level as those grey eyes.

"So, what do ya see, Colonel? Am I goin' to die when I'm fifty, thirty-nine, ninety-nine, tomorrow? Cause if that's the case I should probably confess that it was me who ate the last of the Wheat Thins and put the box back empty. Sorry about that."

Hannibal squinted at his palm, clearly not quite the 'let me see' response the Colonel had been thinking. "You're going to have to move a bit closer, son."

Did the man think he was stupid?

He shuffled forward a quarter of an inch, pointing as he went. "Well, this top one is kind of like the keel of a boat and it goes on for, oh, about two and three-quarter inches, while the one below it – real interesting if you can see here – has these curves in it that stretch all the way from my pointer to practically the bottom of my palm. I think it means that I'm destined to live on a house boat on the Pacific during the winter."

"Why the Pacific?" Hannibal asked mildly.

"Left hand is always the West Coast," he explained. "See, West Coast is on the left and besides, left handed people were supposed to be all kinds of kooky devil worshipers. You got Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and Salem all on the left side of the map."

"I see," said Hannibal, and it really did sound like the Colonel understood. Which was probably worrisome if he sat down and thought about it, but he was used to being surprised by Hannibal by now.

At that he switched palms. The trick was to keep the target distracted. Thank you for the con lessons, Faceman. "Now the_right_hand is even more interesting. See, this top line is the one that's long and the bottom one is the one that's short. I think it means that I should live in a tree house on a mountain top somewhere on the Atlantic coast during the summer."

But when he looked up the Colonel was just watching him and he realized then that there was a reason Face always failed when conning the silver fox. "Right, because of the map?"

"Yeah…" He trailed off and also came to the conclusion that he had never actually diverted the man's attention at all. Thank you for the con lessons, Faceman…

"Come on, Murdock." And the drying hand held out to him really didn't leave any other choice in the matter.

So reluctantly, with as much of a whine as he could muster and still hang on to some shred of his manhood, he shuffled forward another foot and gave Hannibal his hand. He hoped the Colonel realized just how big of an effort that was, because he was starting to feel his toes going cold and the base of his spine lock up.

Though that may have been from the squatting. He wasn't entirely sure.

Hannibal was gentle, however, taking his hand and pulling it closer, slowly, as if sudden movements would startle him. Which they probably would have, and he had to at least give Hannibal credit for knowing that. "Hm..."

He glanced at the gate again as the Colonel looked down and calculated the odds of the gate being locked. Considering the front door was guarded and Face and BA weren't out here, chances were high that it was. But maybe, just maybe they'd forgotten.

"I'm seeing a pretty long life line, except..." Hannibal's trailed statement had him looking back down at the Colonel, back still tense and heart still racing formula one fast. "I'm seeing a little bit of danger in here."

All he could do was stare at Hannibal. "Hannibal, we're Army Rangers. What part of that doesn't scream dangerous?"

Hannibal chuckled. "True. But I meant on your hand." A light finger traced faint lines in his palm, tickling his skin and causing his arm to squirm at the stimulation. "These little lines here, they're the danger lines." And now he was bent over his hand, looking. "Notice how they're in the shape of a wave? A clear sign that you will be encountering water at some point in your life."

Too late he realized this was a Hannibal lecture. One too late to abort from when one of those large hands wrapped around his wrist, grounding him to the Colonel.

Grey eyes were watching him now. "Every time I get called for a mission, Murdock, I don't know where it will be. It could be the desert, or the jungle, or into the mountains. But it could also be on a cargo ship, out at sea, or someplace where not knowing how to swim could endanger you and the team."

There was a pause there as he considered that.

Briefly.

"But most of your plans have me as air support, Colonel, and as much as I recognize the fact that not knowing how to swim could be disadvantageous in certain predicaments, how many times have I needed to know in the past three years?"

He could feel his own pupils betraying him, inching further and further down as the Colonel spoke, those little waves just a tad too close for comfort. That lapping sound just a tad too loud for him to feel at ease. "Murdock, just because the need hasn't risen yet doesn't mean that one never will."

His gaze went back up as Hannibal tugged on his hand, gently, distracting him from the fact that he was way too close to the pool and that he was now paralyzed from his chest down. "I'd hate for anything to happen to one of you boys over something that was preventable."

So he wanted to use logic? Two could play that game. "Technically, there are more ways to drown than not knowing how to swim." Did you know drowning is the third leading cause of unintentional death?"

"Murdock…"

A bat of his eyelashes went with the fact that he blustered on, not letting Hannibal get a word in, and more importantly not letting his mind dwell on the fact that a little bit of water was splashing on to the edge of his sneakers. "You can also drown in less than five inches of water, and even if you're a swimmer, cold water can cause cramps, you could get swept away by a rip tide or a large wave before you even get a chance to respond, and don't even get me started on how dangerous pool covers are."

He glanced sideways at that, at the folded blue tarp sitting so innocuously to the side. Tricky devils.

"Murdock." And this time the voice was insistent and he reflexively found himself meeting Hannibal's eyes. They stared at him, strong and unphased as ever. "I don't want to see you drown, knowing I could have done something to prevent it."

"We could invest in life vests, water wings, an inner tube! Always wanted my own little sea critter hanging around my middle all day." He wondered if Hannibal knew that he was halfway to a panic attack.

But Hannibal's eyes weren't even playing along anymore and he found himself freezing completely when the Colonel asked, quietly, "Murdock, are you afraid of water?"

Oh yeah, he may have forgotten that important fact when he mentioned he couldn't swim.

He stared at Hannibal for awhile as he weighed the merits of each answer. Yes wasn't exactly ideal because this was Hannibal Smith, the man who really was Bruce Willis and James Bond rolled into one super combination of action, action and more suave actiony grace that always came with no fear. No wasn't ideal either, because that meant he wasn't afraid of water, which he technically kind of was, at least the kind that couldn't be gulped down or sprayed from a hose or relaxed in via bathtub or hot tub (he wasn't picky on that front, and neither was Mr. Rubberton).

No answer was necessary however, as apparently his silence was enough for Hannibal to switch his grip from his wrist to his shoulder. "What's wrong, son?"

That was a question he definitely did have an answer for, but not one he could say because suddenly his mouth was Fort Knox and information was gold, and quite frankly Hannibal really wasn't offering that good of a price for trading in right now.

He'd take his chances with .

He licked his lips and glanced sideways at the pool tiles. "Did you know that James Bond doesn't always drive an Aston Martin? He drives a Russian tank, a double-decker bus, and an oil tanker too. You need to get going on your unusual vehicular driving record, Hannibal, or you're going to start falling behind."

To Hannibal's credit, again, the Colonel didn't press the issue. Instead, the older man's other hand pressed gently on his cheek to align grey eyes to his once again. "I'll keep that in mind."

Perhaps that had worked.

"We'll start slow."

Darn it.

"Slow is a relative term. One person's fast may be another person's slow, and for others slow is negotiable depending on the direction the acceleration is applied toward."

Hannibal chuckled lowly. "How about we start with just a hand?"

And before he could protest Hannibal was gently taking his hand, fingers sliding over his wrist to guide it down toward the clear water of the pool. Before his brain could respond to the fact that he was now _getting closer _to a potentially lethal body of water his hand was dipping below the surface and goose bumps were rising on his arms at the change in temperature.

He stared at the fact that his hand was underwater, fingers slanted in the distorted view and wondered in the recesses of his frozen mind when the kraken was coming.

"With no knowledge of how to survive in it, water can be deadly," Hannibal said, and he had to think about how _that _statement was particularly inspiring. "But knowing how to swim can save you even when water is at its most powerful, and it can certainly save you in instances where we're not on the high seas during a hurricane."

He shut his mouth at that, the example taken right out of his mind, and not for the first time he wondered if Hannibal wasn't really Professor X on some level. He'd be proven right when the man went bald, any day now.

Try as he could, however, he couldn't stop Hannibal's other hand from undoing the laces on one of his shoes as that low voice tried hard not to smirk. "See, not so bad, is it Captain?"

"Guess not." It really wasn't, now that he calmed down and stopped thinking about that Water Temple Boss in Zelda. Experimentally he wiggled his fingers, just in case, but no amorphous blob appeared to eat his soul. "Kinda chilly."

"It gets warmer when you move around in it." The other shoe was suddenly unlaced and he had to wonder when that happened. "Want to try sticking your feet in?"

Automatic. "Not really."

"Murdock…"

"Boss…"

The perfect whine, really.

They stared at each other for a moment before Hannibal removed his hand from his laces. "All right, we can call it a day then if that's all you can handle."

He should have been jumping for joy at that and running for the house, tripping over his laces into the glass door and scaring the moisturizer right out of Face. But instead his mind fixated on _that _tone in Hannibal's voice. The tone that was reserved for BA when the man's flying phobia was getting out of hand, or for Face when he was doing something idiotic, like sleeping with the same General's wife twice. She hadn't even really been that attractive.

"What are you sayin' exactly, Colonel?" He found himself asking, forgetting to pull his hand out of the water.

Hannibal put up both hands defensively. "I'm just saying that if you can't handle more then that's fine. We can call it a day, I'll call off the mission and maybe we can try again with this tomorrow."

"What mission?" He frowned.

The Colonel just shrugged and flicked some water off to the side, casual, coolly. Totally up to something. "We had an extended assignment in southern California. But I'm sure they can get another Alpha Team to handle it."

"Why can't we handle it?"

But he already knew the answer. "It involves some reconnaissance through water, but it's ok, I'll explain to the client that we don't do wet environments."

Nu-uh. No way was he going to be the reason they lost a mission! That was not his job. His job was to be the one who howled excitement about whatever backwater they were being sent to that week, effectively irritating BA and getting Face to grumble in annoyance.

Yet…he focused on blue death. This was this. And he could still feel the stiffness in his back from his locked body parts. Was it really worth discarding thirty plus years of well-founded, well-practiced, well-developed fear? Really, if you're going to put over thirty years of quality development into anything, you're kind of loathe to get rid of it all of a sudden. Especially when it's served you so well.

He stared at Hannibal, then at the water, then back at the Colonel as the man gave him one of the most disappointed looks he'd ever received in his life. Pure, 100% proof guilt inspiring.

Particularly when the Colonel said, quite calmly, quite neutrally as he moved to get out, "Did you bring out a towel by chance, Murdock?"

Then again, Hannibal had served him fairly well also, and besides, you only lived once, right?

So he shut off his brain and did the first thing he could think of, which wasn't much considering his rationale center was no longer functioning, and flung himself into the water.

He really doesn't know why he waited until Hannibal had moved to fling himself into the pool. All common sense would have pointed him to, one, not flinging himself into the water in the first place or, two, at least aiming for the highest rising item in the water. Then again, he really wasn't one for common sense to begin with, so all the more reason to continue with that reputation now, he supposed.

Be that as it may, though, he managed to keep his cool.

Ultimate cool.

Ok, catatonic cool.

But cool is cool, right?

For a few moments he was actually ok with it all. Sure, he'd flung himself to an early demise, but at least he still had his balls and could claim man points once it all ended and he was in the after life exchanging bro stories with Houdini and Charles Lindburgh. He's fairly certain he has Houdini beat on near-death experiences, but he'd been hoping to have a few more flight hours on Lindburgh. Oh well, no sense crying over that now, and besides, he'd flipped a helicopter. That had to be worth a few points at the very least.

Vaguely he was aware that he was floating face down, and he should be panicking, but he was half wondering if he was really just flying now. Maybe he passed out and he's dreaming. Maybe he was just thinking this. Maybe this is the Matrix and he really did eat the blue raspberry jello at lunch instead of that nasty 'all natural' cherry stuff that he thought he'd taken. That kind of explained how he was pretty ok with floating around in the pool, face down, staring at the blurry tiled bottom and wondering if it is possible to get sucked into the drain at the bottom.

Hands were encircling him before he could sink further and suddenly he was gasping for breath and his brain was kicking in and _oh god _there's water all around and the kraken couldn't be far behind. He might have let out a small shriek, though only because he thought he felt something slimy around his ankle.

So much for his man points.

"OOF! Murdock, take it ea-"

He managed to catch Hannibal in the chin again as he full out flailed like a deranged chicken. "I changed my mind! Changed my mind! I'm drowning! Oh god, I'm wet and it's wet and I'm going to drown!"

"Murdock! You're-"

"Get it away, get it away!"

"Murdock-"

"HELP! HELP!"

Water was flying, the sound of splashing filled his ears, and when his hands came in contact with smooth, tanned chest he found himself climbing and scrambling up the leaning tower of Hannibal and draping himself over the Colonel's broad shoulders, clinging for all he was worth and hooking his still sneakered feet up and around the older man's chest.

He briefly wondered if Hannibal could take his weight, but the concern for the Colonel's lower back was lost in the fact that he needed to get as far away from the water as possible, _now_.

There was a crashing noise and a loud THUMP as something smacked into the glass door. He craned his neck around to see Face stumble out into the backyard, panicked and dazed. "Hannibal? Murdock?"

BA was right behind him, calmer and noticing the situation enough to narrow his eyes. "What's goin' on?"

Hannibal sighed. "We're all right Face, BA. Just getting our feet wet…"

Water dripped from his shoes as he watched his two team mates, wild-eyed. "Heeeeeelp meeeee…"

BA groaned. "Crazy fool, givin' me a heart attack with all your screamin'! Just learn how to swim and get it over with!"

Face was a bit more sympathetic. "You're ok, Murdock, Hannibal's got you." The conman gave Hannibal a quick glance, biting his lower lip in that ever-present protectiveness for him that Face had.

Hannibal gave a nod to Face. "I've got him." Then to BA, "We're working on it." The update was accompanied with a look that had BA turning, muttering but not saying anything more as the Corporal's hulking frame disappeared inside.

Which left…

Face caught his eyes again and he would have reached out a hand if it wasn't busy trying to squeeze the air out of Hannibal's diaphragm. Instead, he upped the puppy dog look from six month old Labrador to five week old Golden Retriever. "Faaaaaace, don't leave meeeee!"

For a moment he thought he had Face. The con man took a step forward, frowned a bit, and gave Hannibal a look. "Hold on."

His heart soared a bit as he waited for Face to come untangle his frozen body. Closed his eyes and breathed a long sigh of relief until he realized that there were no hands on his shoulders. There wasn't even a reassuring word that everything would be ok. Instead, something flopped into the pool and when he opened his eyes there was Thermidor, all blown up, with a pleased Face looking down at him.

"There you go, buddy. Should help you out." A wink from those bright blue eyes. "Nothing will get you with that!"

And the conman was off across the yard, through the door, sliding the glass behind him with one last dirty glare at the door itself.

He was so going to make sure their next flight was nothing but vomit-inducing.

Hannibal was running his hands over his knees, however, drawing him back to the fact that he was still clinging to the taller man. "Captain, mind easing up a bit there?"

"Oh god."

The Colonel just sighed and shifted to try to accommodate the fact that there was an additional 170 plus pounds on him. "Right."

He licked his lips. "Changed my mind, Colonel. I think we're a no-go on this. We'll just have to clone ourselves and send in the B-Team. No other solution. We'll just combine my clone's genes with that of a swan and he'll know how to swim _and _fly."

There was a slight snort from Hannibal, but those large hands continued to rub soothing circles into his wet skin. "Do you trust me?"

That low little statement was out of the blue and random and made him stop mid-sentence about the advantage of swans over ducks. That singular question cut through the chatter in his mind that was reminding him that there was definitely more than five inches of water in this pool. He responded automatically, "Of course, Colonel."

"Would you trust me with your comic books?"

"Even with my Batman #1." And it was true. Hannibal would give it the tender love that he did, keep it pressed between two large books, remember to flip through it occasionally just to prove that it was loved.

"How about with Billy?"

His shoulders untensed just a little at the thought. "You know Billy loves you, Colonel."

There was a small smile on the Colonel's face now, he could tell without looking. "How about with your life?"

This was going somewhere, he could tell. He answered slower, but with no less intensity. "Of course, Hannibal. Have so far, haven't I?"

Hannibal shifted a bit to ease a sore spot. "Do you trust me now?"

He frowned. There was the catch. "It's not you I don't trust, Hannibal. It's the water." He glanced down at the pool. "It's tricky stuff you know. One minute there, the next gone, takin' everything with it."

A pause followed that as he remembered the wall of water, how everything shook and disappeared in a roar of noise. His grip tightened again, but when a soft, "What about me, Captain?" drifted through the cacophony in his head he shook it off and buried his head into the sparse hair on Hannibal's neck, muttering his answer.

"What was that?"

Apparently Hannibal didn't understand neck-mumble.

"I trust you, Hannibal…"

Hannibal gave a serious nod. "All right then." A large hand found his head and ruffled his hair, cupped his neck. "I've got you, son. I won't let you drown. Just, trust me, all right?"

It was a lot to ask. More than Hannibal knew. But then again, it had been a lot to ask to trust a thorazine cracked out, chameleon-eyed guy in a V.A. hospital, somewhere in godforsaken Mexico, to fly a complicated piece of machinery through a fire storm on short notice. All based off sheets of paper from years and years ago that said he was 'crazy' and 'insane' and 'stupidly talented' and 'devilishly handsome' (or, at least, that's what he got Face to believe). That complete faith in those grey eyes had wiped out the mania and focused him from the core, something he hadn't been able to do in awhile.

And he owed the Colonel for that.

He loosened his grip, hands shaky. "Ok…"

It still kind of felt like he was giving over his soul to the devil, but he supposed he'd done that awhile ago – sorry Grams.

Hannibal was gently tugging his shoes off, tossing the sodden sneakers onto the pool decking. The socks followed, peeled off carefully, fingers trailing down to tickle his toes a bit until he squirmed. The Colonel smiled at that and suddenly was easing his legs off one at a time, down the older man's taut stomach and into the water.

He hissed at the water. "Oh god, it's wet."

"Water tends to be that way."

"Hannibal…"

"Don't think about it."

He gave a laughing bark at that. Not think about it? If he hadn't been before, he was now! And there was the water, sending off that flight instinct that had him nearly ripping skin off Hannibal's back. But even as his heart raced he heard Hannibal hum, low and soothing, and the Colonel was turning to hold him close to his chest. He could hear Hannibal's heart beating, as slow and steady as his entry into the water was. So he zeroed in on that _one-two, one-two, one-two _pattern. Banished the rest of his thoughts away with a few deep breaths and focused on the fact that Hannibal was close, so very close. A grounding force as he waited to be washed away.

Fingers pushed wet hair out of his eyes. "Take a look, Murdock."

He opened his eyes slowly.

Tanned skin met his gaze and he had to look up for what seemed like forever (well, Hannibal was a tower after all) to find grey eyes smiling down at him. It was then he realized that he was clinging to Hannibal, still, but standing on his own, waist deep in water.

Actually _in _the water, standing, not getting sucked away by the drain or a crocodile or some sentient whirlpool like on those old-timey maps.

Well huh.

He wasn't being swept away, or pulled under, and the water wasn't becoming sentient and leaping down his throat or up his nose. Instead, it made his legs a bit heavy and gave his whole lower body an almost weightless, sluggish quality that made him wonder if this is what zero gravity felt like in space. Space was pretty awesome, so this wasn't _horrible _either, he supposed. He just wished he had a cool helmet and packaged ice cream to make it official.

"Not so bad, is it?" Hannibal said softly over his head.

He nodded, still watching the water. "I guess…" He wasn't going to give in that easily. Particularly as a loud slosh against the side made him jump.

Hannibal chuckled softly and moved a hand to his shoulder, other hand curling gently around a wrist. "Want to try letting go?"

His grip tightened. "Houston, that would be a no thank you, sir."

"Mmm, well, let's try just moving a bit then."

A warm palm pressed into his shoulder and he found himself moving with the motion, forced a single step back. The water eddied and swirled around him and for a moment he panicked, limbs forming into angles and eyes widening. Yet the hand on his wrist chased the tremors and suddenly new fingers intertwined with his.

"Look at me, Murdock."

And he did, tearing his eyes away from the currents and up to those steady grey eyes.

Hannibal gave him a smile. "I've got you, HM."

It may have been Hannibal saying his name, or it may have been the vague realization that he could probably moonwalk underwater, but he let himself be moved in a sort of slow dance with the Colonel. True, there was – as his Grams would say – plenty of room for Jesus but with each sway he could feel Hannibal's thumb rubbing his. And those eyes never wavered, not once. He could watch as things that could be called crow's feet or crinkles, depending on your mood, formed in a show of encouragement, a silent communication that things were right.

Felt right even when he blinked and realized the distance had grown and suddenly he was quite unattached to the Colonel in front of him. "Hannibal…"

The crinkles grew. "How does that feel, Captain?"

Another blink and he looked himself over, half checking for suction marks from large tentacles or way-laid whaling harpoons or sea serpent bites. Nope, clean. He was puzzled, wasn't really quite sure what to make of it all.

Experimentally, he put a hand on the water's surface. Watched as the water tension let his hand float. "Oh. _Oh_."

Hannibal smiled.

"I'm not…drowning." He was in awe, because he had really expected the water to move. That didn't mean it was trustworthy, not at all. But perhaps it wasn't that bad.

He took another step. "It doesn't appear to be sentient, yet. It must be in its dormant state, waiting for a trigger, the right movement to awaken the beast that lurks below."

The smile on the Colonel's face was accompanied with an impressive eye-roll. "Hard to drown standing up, Captain."

He gave Hannibal a stern look. "Colonel, just because the water didn't leap up into my mouth doesn't mean you can't drown standing up. There are at least one-hundred ways to drown, if not one hundred and one, and not expecting it is the first step toward finding yourself at the bottom of the pool."

Hannibal blinked at that and gave a quite serious nod, though he was fairly certain there was a smile tugging at the older man's mouth. "Of course, how could I forget?"

He turned back to the water, letting his hands sink beneath the surface. "Technically drowning is anytime you can't breath because of liquid sealing your air passage. It doesn't have to be in your lungs to be a drowning, which leaves any number of permutations and computations involving a liquid, you, and any number of positions. Limit the equation to just water, include outlier third-party factors such as animals, water-based attacks, and natural sources of non-standing water, and you're technically looking at thousands of ways to drown."

"I see," was all Hannibal said, watching him as he moved, letting the water come up to his elbows now.

A flick of his nail sent water droplets sparkling into the air onto Hannibal. The Colonel just shook his head and smiled to himself, however, and he had to grin, let himself splash. So very different from the water he knew, the destructive, angry stuff that was still sloshing around in his mind, somewhere deep.

While part of him was still kind of freaking out at the fact that he was _in _the pool, another part of him wanted more. The curious part of his nature that would probably have him ending up like the cat or the gorilla or some other, poor, metaphorical animal who just wanted to know what was going on.

He turned up his chin a bit to bolster this resolve and glanced at Hannibal, announcing, "I'm ready to swim now."

Hannibal just smiled warmly. "All right then."

It was one thing to stand there and flick water at Hannibal until the man threatened to get BA to help return the favor, another thing entirely to actually, you know, swim.

"No, no, keep your hand cupped as you extend." Hannibal reached over to adjust his hand. "The object is to propel yourself forward with as much speed and push as one stroke can."

He grinned a bit. "That's what she said."

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing." But he wasn't able to keep the grin off his face, despite the eyebrow from Hannibal. "So what is this stroke called again?"

"The breast stroke."

He choked on his own spit and could have sworn there was an eat-shit grin on the Colonel's face.

Hannibal patted his back gently as he composed himself. "You all right there, son?"

With a cough he nodded. "Yeah, yeah." Two could play this game. "Just thinking that I may be lacking a few vital features for that stroke. Maybe you should be teaching me the cock stroke instead?"

The Colonel gave him a long look and for a moment he wondered if he'd crossed the line. Until the man deadpanned, "That's a stroke better suited for the bedroom than the pool, son."

Granted, he almost drowned as he flailed about at that, having managed to fall forward onto his face at a mistimed stroke forward. But the near-death experience was totally justified in his mind, because this was Colonel Hannibal Smith, and the man was not one to throw out jokes of that nature. Face, yes, and often. Hannibal, not really.

Hannibal patted his back as he spluttered. "Let's try some kicking."

And he was left to watch and wonder about exactly where that playfulness had come from as he wiped what was definitely _not _drool – cause that wasn't cool or suave – off his chin.

"You all right?" Hannibal asked.

"Yeah, just wondering what Thermidor has to do with kicking." The floatable lobster was bumped into his stomach as Hannibal pushed it over. "He's more of a scuttling along type, with the occasional tail thrust and maybe water jet, like some of those shrimp do."

"Well, unless you'd rather hold on to the side…"

He made a face, because as much as BA liked to claim, he wasn't five. "Right, ok."

He took up Thermidor and suddenly he was Arion, thrown from the ship by his faithful companions (here's looking at you, Face and BA). "For my song has summoned you, oh faithful beast of Apollo, and henceforth shall you deliver me safely to shore where I can sing my songs of old once more!"

Hannibal snorted as he put a hand on his shoulder. "BA will be thrilled."

He grinned. "I will sing him a ballad of strength and valor through the night!"

"Let's concentrate on getting back to shore the correct way first, all right? A song won't be any good if only the waves are there to listen."

And he had to give the Colonel that, because really, the ocean was a horrible audience. So they moved on to kicking, which was apparently a big part of swimming as Hannibal made a huge fuss about him doing it properly. To which he stated that he was fairly certain he'd know what proper kicking was, as he'd kicked Face out of the kitchen while making dinner so many times that he practically was pro status, but apparently that wasn't the same thing.

When he was satisfied he was ready, arms clutching Thermidor, head resting on shiny red plastic and a great view of Hannibal's abs in front of him, the Colonel placed two light hands on his shoulders. "All right, now try kicking."

He hesitated because he had yet to step away from the comfort of solid pool floor beneath his feet. "Right, kicking. Just a twitch of the ankle kind of kick or are we talking about full-on football for the goal line kind of kick? Or maybe just something in between, like a skip, jump, hop kind of kick that-"

Hannibal pulled and suddenly his feet were floating up and kicking for purchase and he squeezed his eyes shut at the fact that he was floating away, away, away, just like-

"That's it. You've got it, Captain. A little harder now!"

Wait, what? He opened his eyes and realized he was, in fact, kicking. Correctly apparently as one of Hannibal's hands tightened on his shoulder. "Not too hard. Control is key."

He nodded and adjusted, blinking a bit at the fact that there was sun and clear waters and not the raging grey wall that had been there minutes ago. Ok, this wasn't horrible. Not bad at all, really.

Hannibal's abs tensed and he realized it was because the man was chuckling. "You've got this, Murdock. In fact, you're practically a natural."

"You just say that to all the pretty swimmers you teach," he snorted, because really, it just felt like he was flailing with precision right now. But hey, if that was what swimming was, he could do that.

Hannibal just chuckled and smiled a smile he hadn't seen in awhile. Was the man seriously have fun with this?

A smile he quickly forgot when Hannibal said, "I'm going to let go now."

Too late though. Hannibal was stepping aside and suddenly his view wasn't a solid, comforting wall of muscle but cold tile and it was headed straight for him. Suddenly he knew what the Titanic must have felt like, approaching doom and unable to do anything but brace itself with a realization that the life boat system was inadequate. He'd really have to speak to the pool toy company about putting at least a life preserver with all of its toys.

It was when he started to slip off Thermidor that panic set in, however. True and utter terror, because suddenly the red plastic was gone.

He was clawing at the kitchen door now, splinters digging into his hands as that heavy grey water tried to claim him. Water, water, everywhere: around him, beneath him, falling from the sky and plastering his hair into his eyes. That infernal roar was there again, almost drowning out her voice, screaming his name over the growing expanse…

Then he was being yanked up and there was Hannibal, holding him close as he coughed and spluttered and spit water like a faulty sprinkler in summer. "I've got you son, I've got you. Calm down, calm down…"

His nails dug into Hannibal's back as his feet found footing, heart like a jackrabbit on hot pavement. Things were muzzy at the edges, senses dulled as Hannibal lifted him up and out of the water, a large hand rubbing circles into his back. "Let's take a break…"

And he realized that his heart wasn't the only one racing.

Hannibal sat next to him until things focused and he could stare at his feet in the water without shutting his eyes and tensing. How sad was this? One minute ready and willing to finally find out what the big deal was about this swimming thing, the next he was wanting to curl into a ball and remind himself that there's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home.

Ranger, baby. Or should that be baby, Ranger?

Finally he sighed and broke the silence that Hannibal was waiting so patiently in. "Sorry 'bout that, Colonel. Things kinda went all loud and wild there for awhile. Don't really know what I was thinkin'…"

But he did – knew he was going to have nightmares about it later – and the hand that squeezed his shoulder knew as well. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He's a manly man, and manly men don't talk about this!

"Not really."

"I think you should."

His eyes narrowed at the water. "That an order?"

"No." That deep voice was soft now. "Just an offer."

He nodded, letting out the lingering panic with a breath. It wasn't that he didn't want to tell _Hannibal_, he didn't want to tell _anyone_. Talking meant reliving and reliving meant nightmares, and while the therapists had insisted on talking about it over and over again in Mexico, this wasn't Mexico and Hannibal wasn't a therapist. Perhaps it was immature to run away from the issue and perhaps it was unhealthy (or as Dr. Richter would say, both in true avoidance form), but he'd been doing fine all these years and really, it wasn't like all of the earth was covered in water. There was at least 30% that was Murdock-safe.

A cool touch brought him out of his thoughts and for a moment the smell of coconut made him wonder if someone finally invented a teleporter and transported him to Hawaii. "Um, Hannibal?"

The Colonel paused, sunscreen mid-smear on his shoulder. "Yes?"

"I can do that."

Hannibal just grunted. "I'll get your back at least, son."

"Hannibal," he squirmed, moving to grab the tube (where had that even come from?) out of the man's grasp because he was definitely old enough to apply his own sunscreen.

He paused, however, at the sight of Hannibal, chest moving in and out just a bit too fast, fingers pressed a bit too hard into his shoulder to conceal what could be an almost imperceptible shake. Spooked, maybe shaken, he didn't know which. But he had managed to scare the silver fox – something that even their targets could rarely do.

He swallowed down his protests at that. "Get the back of my neck, will ya? Got petal skin, I'm afraid - gift from my ma's side of the family you see - and don't want to have to explain that I ain't actually related to ol' Therm here."

Hannibal snorted a little. "Of course."

So he let him continue, goosebumps forming on his arms at the warring sensations of cool lotion and hot sun. Hannibal's hands were tense, fingers and arms long angular lines that highlighted the fat that the Colonel's mouth was pursed tightly in thought at the corners. A wave of guilt went through him at the idea that those new lines of tension in his forehead were put there by him. He didn't mean to be difficult, didn't like to be, especially when Hannibal was concerned. The man was nothing but a walking, talking grounding line, able to pull him up and reel in the pieces of him back into some semblance of form. It was a quality he admired in the man, a quality that had drawn him in at Mexico and drew him in even now.

He sighed. "'m sorry, Hannibal."

Hannibal paused, eyes flicking to him. "For what, son?"

"Fer bein' difficult." He idly kicked a foot in the water, sending waves rippling to the other side. "Don't mean to be. Just sometimes things come back and latch on and suddenly you're losin' the wind in your sails and not really sure what to do."

There was a pause as the Colonel deciphered that. "Murdock…" And to his surprise Hannibal's hand cupped his cheek, turning his eyes to him. "It's all right."

And there was a kind smile now, the one that understood. "There are some things we can't control. All we can do is keep fighting and overcome."

He blinked at that and nodded, not sure if he was stunned by the acceptance in that voice or by the fact Hannibal's thumb was stroking the soft skin under his chin. "We'll go as slow as you need until you overcome this. And I'll be there by your side until you do. I promise."

He swallowed. "Hannibal, it's an awful lot of fuss to do all this. Coulda just shipped me off to the Y with Thermidor here and some water wings."

Hannibal just shook his head. "It's nothing I wouldn't do for any of you boys." And for some reason that made his stomach drop a bit because he should have figured that this is just a job, just another duty of higher rank.

He also should have realized that there was more to it.

Did realize it when Hannibal looked him dead in the eyes and said, "It's something I want to do for you, son. If you'll let me."

He just raised an eyebrow and found himself asking, "You sure?"

Hannibal just smiled, gently. "I'm sure."

A pause stretched between them and he had to wonder if Hannibal knew what that meant. "Even if it means having to give me CPR because I swallow half the pool?"

"I'm sure."

"My lips are pretty chapped…"

"I'll survive."

"Even if the monster under the drain wakes up and starts dragging me to a watery grave?"

"It won't stand a chance."

"What about if Thermidor comes alive and decides to drag me off to the Lobster Kingdom to make me prince of the sea?"

Hannibal shook his head, an amused smile on his face as he handed over the sunscreen. "You'd miss the sky."

"What about-"

The Colonel interrupted this time however with a small splash as he slipped back into the pool. A hand appeared on his knee to pat it reassuringly and that low voice was there, quietly assuring, "I'm sure, Murdock. No matter what it takes, I want to do this."

He smiled at his hands. "All righty then."

And despite the numerous scenarios he could imagine, he didn't really doubt that Hannibal meant it.

A few hours and another coat of sunscreen later and he felt like Michael Phelps, swimming in a bizarre combination of dog paddle/frog kick/dying fish flail from one end of the shallow end to another.

Granted, Phelps probably didn't have a lobster float, but that was just a technicality.

BA had snorted when he and Face had been summoned outside to see the spectacle. "Least we know you ain't goin' to drown in the kiddie pool anytime soon."

Face had given BA a look before clapping loudly, adding a wolf whistle that had someone somewhere slamming their window shut. "Way to go, man! You'll be on your way to freestyle any day now."

He grinned and splashed a bit to emphasize, "Gold medal in 2012, Faceman!"

Hannibal chuckled at that as BA muttered, "Only gold medal you getting is in crazy."

"Already got one for that, BA!" he'd said brightly, causing another groan to come from the Corporal. "Didn't I show you? Ol' John made it for me in art therapy. Said it was either for bein' crazy enough to attempt an escape with a shoe, a toaster, and a coffee mug, or cause he thought I was some fellow named Maurice. But either way, you're lookin' at a champion, Bosco."

Bosco just stared, which was a look the Corporal was mastering. "How'd you think you were goin' to escape with that, fool?"

He just smiled. "Trade secret, old chap."

The conman chuckled and gave him a wink. " Well I, for one, will be betting on you, buddy. Gold medal winners need to have a good meal though. Who's up for pizza?"

"Pineapple and mushroom?" he perked up, lifting his head from its perch on Thermidor's back.

"You got it," Face promised.

"Uh-uh, no way, don't care if he's solved world hunger. That ain't a combination that belongs anywhere, much less my food!"

He giggled as Face and BA argued back and forth before glancing at the mostly silent Hannibal. The Colonel, to his surprise, was watching him with a bit of a faraway look. On Face, that look meant deep thinking over his next date, usually centered on what page of the Karma Sutra he was aiming for that night. On BA, it meant his newest tinkering project or his mama were forefront on the large man's mind. But on Hannibal? He wasn't really sure. It could mean anything at all, or nothing, the latter which he doubted because Hannibal never thought of nothing.

At least, nothing that wasn't important.

Over the increasing noise, Hannibal came back to the surface and gave him a soft smile, as if he hadn't been anywhere. "You did good, son."

The pride in that statement made him swell. He'd totally take that, because hot damn, he was a swimming/kick boarding/lobster riding fiend.

Thanks to Hannibal.

All in all, the man had been true to his word, even through two more panic attacks and a loud and long rant on his part about why the floating duck thermometer was out to get him (it had a beady look in its eyes, clearly up to no good). The Colonel had to have been a saint in some other life, because he never pushed the issue, no matter how many times he left crescent nail marks in the man's back. He'd need to figure out who Hannibal had been and light candles or something, maybe say a Hail Hannibal or two, because it was nice to not have someone pushing him to talk about it. The Colonel was letting him decide, letting him take care of himself while Hannibal pushed him to be the best in other ways.

That's why Hannibal had the fancy pins, he supposed.

Clapping a hand on his back, the holder of said fancy pins moved to get out. "That pizza getting ordered or not, boys?"

And that was that.

Swimming lessons over, pizza picked up, and beer all around, he hadn't necessarily been surprised to find that the TV was back, as were a few of the pots. He gave Face and BA a look, neither meeting his eyes, and he left it alone when even Hannibal coughed and changed the subject to who was playing who on some big game or another.

Fair enough. He probably would have done the same.

...not really.

They were all going to pay…tomorrow.

When the pizza stopped being good.

An occurrence which came sooner than he expected when he woke up that night in a sweat, trembling in a tight coil of tension and shaking like a bad motor. Disoriented, panicked, and wanting to cry, it took him a moment to figure out that, no, he wasn't floating away or cold or even wet beyond the tears streaming down his face that came with this particular nightmare. He was in tangled up in Rebel Alliance sheets in his room, under the model plane mobile, and very much not in Texas anymore, Toto. No need for ruby slippers here, though he wouldn't say no to a pair of adorable bunnies.

He wanted nothing more than to go back to La-La Land. He'd been practicing his la's and had gotten pretty good, if he did say so himself. And besides, tomorrow was round two, this time without Thermidor, and he needed his rest.

But every time his eyes closed he was inevitably woken up by the same current forcing him under, sweeping her away down the angry, snarling path that had claimed everything else.

No rest for the weary, at least not when he felt like everything was moving past him.

At that point he had a few options, he realized, as he lay in bed and clutched a pillow, a stuffed pink giraffe named Pinky Face had won him when drunk that one night at the bowling alley, and a flash light (just to check for water) to his chest. He could stay in bed and continue to attempt to try to get his mind to stop thinking about it. Which was hard, because now that he was thinking about not thinking about it, he was thinking about it. Or he could stay up for awhile and hope to collapse of exhaustion eventually, which was also a horrible option because Hannibal would not let him skip his early morning PT. And getting a sedative from the med kit was also low on his option list solely because he hated injecting himself and hated the groggy feeling it left him with afterward.

That left him with Option A once more: break the rumination cycle.

He knew what he had to do.

Get something to ground him that had a heartbeat (sorry, Pinky) and was warm and could remind him that there was something else beside him in the night that was real (again, sorry Pinky). Something that wasn't threatening to wash away with the flood. It wasn't a fool proof plan, but it had an 87% success rate as opposed to Option B's 76%.

So with some reluctance he slipped out of bed and padded across the cool floor to the hallway, where he found himself at a crux of decision.

Face's door was across from his. Easy enough to knock gently, turn the handle, and climb into the man's bed before he realized someone had been knocking. He'd done it before and Face was usually willing to help. Usually. Granted, he know knew to look to see if the man had company, but that had only been that one time. It wasn't his fault Face had given up his usual left side orientation on the bed for her.

Either way, he could probably get Face to relent and let him spend the night curled tightly against the conman's chest.

But there was another option, his head was whispering.

The door down the other hallway, through the living room and to the other side of the house led to the lair of the great Hannibal Beast. Hannibal wasn't one to be disturbed lightly. He knew this from experience after bursting in unannounced at twirly too early and receiving an automatic response of a gun in his face. Bossman had been apologetic for weeks, and since then there had been no recurrence of that incident with anyone. Still, few of them disturbed Hannibal unless they had to, limiting such wake-ups to: fire, excessive blood, calls from higher ups, and break ins.

Yet Hannibal was the one who had promised to help him with this swimming thing, and weren't these nightmares part of that? It had been Hannibal who drew him back to the surface in the pool, and it made sense in his sleep-addled head that the Colonel be the one to do the same outside of the water. Yeah, that made sense.

Smart? Maybe not. But logical? Yes.

No one could say H.M. Murdock wasn't logical...sometimes.

Plus, hung over Face drooled.

Mind made up, he turned and made his way to the master bedroom.

Interesting how doors grew in size the more intimidated you were of the contents behind it. It explained why the master bedroom door was suddenly the Walls of Jericho.

Staring up and wondering if he should be using a horn to announce his presence, it took him a few moments to decide if this was _really _the best option here and if maybe he wouldn't have better luck trying to cuddle with BA. His mind was made up, though, or at least part of it was, and that was the part that was reminding him of how the Colonel's hands and voice worked magic on flights of fancy and deep darkness and wouldn't that be nice right now even as his knuckles rapped on the door.

Figuring that was enough of a warning, he opened the door and peered in to the waiting darkness. "Hannibal?"

"Murdock?" came the sleepy reply from the master bed.

He smiled and slipped in, closing the door before Hannibal turned on the lamp. Hannibal was sitting up by then, hair sticking up in the back and eyes still blinking in the sudden light. They stared at one another for a moment, Murdock letting Hannibal adjust and make the first move. Hold still or the beast strikes. "Is everything all right, Captain?"

Perceptive, but then again, when wasn't Hannibal?

"Fine, fine. No blood or anything," he said, shifting from one foot to the other. "Just doing a nightly inspection." He bobbed his head, looking around, coming closer under the guise of inspecting the comforter.

"Inspection?" Hannibal echoed, still blinking a bit and shifting to glance at the clock.

"You remember that beady-eyed fellow from the pool, right? Well, turns out we're missing half a pack of Oreos and I think the little guy's hitting us hard for every crumb we've got."

"Murdock, you and BA ate those last night."

Oh yeah. "Oh. Case solved! By golly, jolly ho, good show man! You've single-handedly solved the Case of the Missing Biscuits! We'll have the yard bring by a token of our thanks, old bloke."

Hannibal just blinked for a moment before asking, "Glad I could help, inspector. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Ok, so that didn't work.

Clean cup, clean cup, move down!

"Well, I'd like a double with cheese, a large order of fries, and a chocolate shake, but I'd also take any extra bed space you had." It was better to go with enthusiastic with a request like that. Face generally responded better the more excited you sounded about it, so maybe that would work with Hannibal too.

Hannibal just stared. "What?"

Ok, perhaps not.

Looking for any gun, knife, fist, or pointy object first, he deemed it safe enough to make a sudden leap for the bed, bouncing onto the open right side before looking back at the bewildered older man. "Can I sleep here?"

Again, Hannibal just stared, blinking rapidly. He had to conclude that their Colonel definitely wasn't a morning person.

"Murdock, is everything all right?"

He waved a hand to dismiss that. "Rebel Alliance is good and all, but it doesn't beat-" He had to squint to tell the color. "Taupe. Yeah, taupe is in nowadays. All the hipsters are sleeping on taupe, and thought I'd give it a try myself."

Hannibal sighed softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Murdock, go to bed, son."

He wasn't deterred yet though. "Pretty pretty please, Hannibal? You don't want me to be the only unpopular kid in the school yard! I'll get picked on then chosen last for kickball and how will I find someone to go to the dance with me if I'm not cool?"

"We'll have Face find someone. Now go to bed, Murdock." This time Hannibal's voice was a little bit more strained and he frowned, hoping he wasn't pushing this too far.

"Please, Hannibal?" He pulled closer, resting his head against the man's shoulder, right where he knew the Ranger tattoo was. The bicep stiffened and his mind switched tactics. "Don't want to sleep by myself."

That particular whine got Hannibal to stiffen more and he could feel the man's grey eyes on him. "Murdock, what's going on?"

He took that as a yes and began to worm under the covers. "Just had a nightmare, but it's ok. I know we can't keep a horse so I put her out to pasture. Hopin' she stays away though cause I kinda want to make apple crisp tomorrow and it's hard to do that when you've fed them all to the pet."

A hand on his shoulder paused his movements to get under the sheet and he looked up at Hannibal, a bit of guilt in his stomach at the concern in those eyes.

The Colonel was watching him with a steady gaze in the low light, eyes focused now and wide. "Was it…"

"No, woulda heard if it was." He gave a bit of a sad smile at that before shaking his head. War dreams had everyone up by now. "No, just from…"

He trailed off, determined to not give the thought footing. It had already been cheating by wearing spikes anyway, no need to help it.

For some reason guilt flashed through Hannibal's eyes, something he would have addressed if he hadn't realized that thoughts always played dirty and a knot had formed in his stomach. He could already hear the dull roar of the water coming back, hear his name being screamed over the rush. Squeezing his eyes, he shook his head to get rid of the noise, to not watch it happen all over again. Fifteen million times was enough, thank you, he'd like a refund to the picture show please.

An arm encircled his shoulder to press him closer, this time into Hannibal's warm side, and he heard a rumble above him. "Just for tonight…"

He had to smile at that, because that was why he came here in the first place. "Just tonight. Promise."

Which he really couldn't promise, but he figured Hannibal would understand.

With a yawn, he slid under the sheet and before Hannibal could protest wrapped his arms around the Colonel's waist, smashing his face into the man's side. He could hear that slow heartbeat going lulling him back to somewhere better than La-La Land. Dream Land. Each rise and fall of the man's chest only beckoned that much more and as his eyes started to flutter he felt his own skin tingle at the warmth of shared quarters.

Grounded. Completely and utterly grounded in at least three of the five senses. Four if smelling like chlorine counted.

Even more centered and set when Hannibal clicked the light off and lay back down as well. When a tentative hand settled on his head he smiled at that, knew this move from Face, and wiffled softly. Totally acceptable, absolutely acceptable. Or at least that's what he hoped the sound said. Evidently it did, as Hannibal gently, carefully carded a hand through his hair like he would shatter.

He sighed happily and tried to tell the Boss that he wouldn't break if he did it a bit stronger or a bit longer. Instead, he found his eyes closing and his mouth slurring together words that barely said, "Night, Bossman."

And to his surprise, as he began to drift on floods much calmer and gentler, he heard a quiet, "Good night, son."

* * *

><p>A few days later, as he waited for Hannibal to appear for Splash Time, as he'd come to call it, BA looked up from his Popular Mechanics and gruffed, "Hey, fool. You never told us why you never learned to swim."<p>

His hand tightened on the sliding glass door handle and for a moment everything in him froze as the options laid out in front of him. Tell, don't tell, run, panic, babble, faint.

Face noticed and frowned slightly in BA's direction. "Hey, it's ok. You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"Just wanted to know after all this, man."

"He doesn't have to answer, BA."

"I know that, Face, I ain't that thick! Just sayin' is all."

But he was already shaking his head, shifting through the clutter and choosing the option he had buried for so long, interrupting the two. "Naw, it's ok. Fair enough question."

He glanced over his shoulder at the two and had to smile. Clothing back, pans in their place, and even a new plane on his mobile, you had to start somewhere, right? And who better than with family.

So he gave a sad smile, skipping the steeling breath in favor of getting it out. "I lost my ma in a flash flood when I was five."

The bickering stopped and two sets of eyes stared at him, sympathy forming even as he smiled a bit more to stall it. He didn't need it or want it; he already had everything he needed. "Guess I just never really wanted to play in the water after that."

Before either could speak he brightened up and found that the memories faded as he did, staying away this time with nothing but an echo of her voice.

Enough of that.

"But never again shall water overtake this young man, for he has been transformed by the great Silver Fox into…" And he struck a pose before pulling out that theme song he'd been dying to try, "Aquatic Avenger! Commander of Sea! Master of oceans, who we all want to _beeee_!"

He was smiling as he sped out the door and into the sun, grabbing his trusty steed from its quarters on the lawn chair and heading for the pool.

Maybe today they'd try the deep end. Maybe today he wouldn't stop at the pool's edge and stare into the water and see his childhood home disappearing underneath, like he was now-darn it! A sigh escaped him at his own actions. Slow and steady wins the race, he told himself, though sometimes he wished he was the rabbit instead of the turtle.

The sigh turned into a smile when a hand appeared on his shoulder and squeezed gently. "Murdock, I'm so sorry…"

He craned his head back to look up at Hannibal. "It's ok, Bossman. What's past is past and this is past past. Point of the past is it's done and we learn to move on. And that's what I'm doin'."

Hannibal gave him a curious look, as if he didn't quite follow, though he was fairly certain the man did. Which didn't explain the expression, but that was ok. "Murdock…"

Picking up Thermidor and turning back to the pool, he glanced over his shoulder at the Colonel. "Don't, Hannibal. Nothin' you can do that you ain't doin' now." He let his smile dissolve a bit into something more serious. "And I appreciate it, Bossman."

They regarded the other for a moment, his hands clenching red plastic a bit tighter as Hannibal shifted and looked him over as if looking for cracks. They were there, always would be. He wasn't stupid enough to deny that. But some would heal, and this one had started.

"Murdock, I…" Hannibal trailed off in a breath, not sure what to say.

He met the Colonel's eyes once more and gave him a bright smile. "Don't, sir." Off the quizzical look, he softened his eyes in affection. The Boss looked so cute when he was confused. "Don't need it. Promise." And he didn't. Too much pity made him nervous anyway.

With a grin he hoped could only be described as mischievous, he turned and jumped in, holding onto Thermidor tightly and almost missing the smile that spread over Hannibal's face. Almost.

And for once, as he hit the water, he was smiling too.


End file.
